Just a poem

The cold has left its mark on the wizened tree.
Though it still lives,
it's not far from death.
The things it's seen never hurt it as much as this,
and though it tries,
it cannot live like it did before.
The branches are left,
frayed and grey,
to await their segmented death.
And when spring comes and the grasses grow,
the tree alone will stand in its sad glory,
wilting and crying out in a silent scream,
never to be answered.
The people will watch sadly,
but from afar,
out of the corners of their eyes
to try to seem like they don't see.
Their hands remain at their sides,
never straying to the fallen leaves,
not even to climb the old tree.
So in it's last days of glory its owners don't want it.
and in people will come with loud machinery
to destroy the ugly obstruction
blocking the green foliage behind.